


The Song of the Red Shrike

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alive Renfri | Shrike (The Witcher), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dead Geralt, F/F, F/M, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Rape/Non-con, Rating May Change, Renfri | Shrike Deserves Better (The Witcher), no beta we die like stregobor fucking DOES IN THIS FIC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28645224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: “Oh, fun. Nice brooch, big ol’ loner, one very very scary looking dagger. I know who you are. … You’re the princess, Renfri of Creyden.”------------Renfri wasn't the one to fall in Blaviken. Geralt wasn't the one they named a butcher.The AU where Renfri lives the life Geralt never had the chance to have.
Relationships: Eskel & Renfri | Shrike, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Renfri | Shrike, Jaskier | Dandelion & Renfri | Shrike, Renfri | Shrike/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 23
Kudos: 40





	1. Just As They Created You

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest. I don't expect this to be a popular fic. I don't actually have too much that I hold against Geralt. I just, one day, realized that a shrike is also called a butcherbird. And, well, I lost control.
> 
> This is my first outlined multi-chapter fic for this fandom (not counting the big bang, since that was posted all at once!). Please let me know if you enjoy it and if you want to see more! 
> 
> Title is a shift from the song "The Song of the White Wolf." Feel free to listen to it to get in the mood.
> 
> NOTE/WARNING: This fic (specifically the first chapter) will have brief references to Renfri's past-- particularly about the rape that happened after Stregobor sent a man to kill her. They're brief details and I don't plan to ever expand or go into detail about this (though, if that changes, I promise to warn you accordingly). Still, do what is best for you! 
> 
> If you still plan on reading, enjoy!

**Blaviken - 1231**

She first sees him on the last day of the season with no rain. It’s the sticky kind of hot, stenches rising from the ground like the putrid filth this town is, rotten and rotting and wrong. A few more weeks and the sun will burn through the ground and into the core, soles and souls weak and paining from the same warmth they begged for months ago. 

These damned people have no idea what they want. So, she takes another drink of the piss ale put in front of her, counting down the days until another thunderstorm can cover her skin with bubbles of rain.

_ He  _ looks like he’d been in that future storm, though: white hair loosely sticking to his cheeks, sweat or blood soaking through the black shirt hanging from his frame. He drags a corpse behind him as he walks through the streets, people parting like he’s an omen rather than a man.

Perhaps it’s the medallion around his neck that scares them off, a snarling wolf eyeing all who watch for too long. 

For this reason alone, she doesn’t look away even as he sits beside her in the tavern.

Her people talk to him, curse at him— jeer at him and call him names. There’s that thunder again under her skin, that crackling sky waiting to break free. How pitiful, she thinks, that those who follow her are so quick to judge others as equally cursed as she.

Her chest is heavy with frustration. She can’t be blamed if some of it leaks into the scowling twist of her lips.

“We don’t want your kind here,” they say. 

“Mutant son of a bitch,” they say.

She bristles. It’s not all so different from what the world tells her— the way the universe glances down, just to the left of her existence, and whispers that she’s  _ not wanted not trusted a mutated evil freak— _

“Can you not leave it alone for a moment?” She snaps and, well. That’s that.

She turns to the man— to the witcher with blood still tangling the ends of his hair— and finds herself smiling. She finds herself joking, offering breakfast and beer. 

She speaks to him. She makes him laugh.

But, then, a young girl. A child with forced words and a smile stinking of a sorcerer approaches the witcher. He follows her without a glance back.

It’s funny, this silly little tingle in her chest as the witcher walks away. She wants him to look back. She wants to speak with him, to offer him a deal before the sorcerer can. 

She wants to make him laugh; she wants to sink her hands into his chest.

But all she does is watch, eyes wide as she wraps a cloak around her shoulders and follows him through the town.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

_ When she’s alone, she thinks of the sun. How perfectly round, how flawlessly shaped. She thinks of the moon, the rise and fall of it each night. _

_ She thinks of the two together. The eclipse. The Black Sun and its prophecies. _

_ When she shuts her eyes, she thinks of blood in the streets and a blade in her hand— of the end of the world and a smile on her face. _

_ She doesn’t want the world to end, not really. Still, the prophecy hangs like a chain around her neck. It blinds her, gags her, shrinks her existence to only this. _

_ She thinks of murder and gore on her fingers. She thinks of death and dying and living forever in horrible tales.  _

_ She thinks of what she might do to stop such a thing. _

_ <><><> <><><> <><><> _

_ She would not do what the sorcerers did.  _

_ In her heart— more than in her mind or dreams— she sees the princesses they took and killed, dissected and studied and left in pain. She feels their screams clawing across her arms and hands; she hears their blood dripping onto stone floors. The shade of every tower is etched into her being, if only because she is the worst of them all. _

_ Other princesses were taken and slaughtered; she escaped everything but her own damned curse. _

_ When she lets herself remember the past, it’s her stepmother’s voice that grates across her ears— calling her cursed, calling her damned, calling her evil and wrong and a freak and— _

_ And she thinks of the sorcerer her mother turned to, a horrid man who introduced himself as Stregobor. Even now, she can feel his assassin chasing after her, though she only knew him for a moment. Only long enough to know the feeling of his hands— unwanted, unclean, uncaring— across her body; then, to know the feeling of his blood across her skin. _

_ Stregobor hired someone to kill her once. She knows it’s not long before he hires someone again. _

_ <><><> <><><> <><><> _

Then why is it such a surprise to see the witcher leaving Stregobor’s tower? Was it the kindness in his eyes back at the tavern? Was it his gentleness with the girl who led— tricked— him here?

Or, perhaps, it’s the things they share that draws her towards him. She knows of witchers— of their mutations, their hatred, their loneliness, their lives.

They’re not so different, she and him. She wonders if the witcher knows that.

She watches as he wanders in the opposite direction of the sunset, the dropping disc of light pressed to her back as she follows him into the woods. It holds her in the shadows, whispers her name and her fate.

Blood and horror and monstrous acts— she knows what witchers do and, she supposes, it makes sense why Stregobor would ask for one.

Still…

The witcher had smiled with her. He’d laughed. He’d come into town to sell a kikimore, nothing more.

There’s a moment when the witcher glimpses over his shoulder, and she craves the golden color of his eyes. It floods her body, running down the edges of her skin onto the brown earth. 

She knows better than to believe in anything other than herself but, still, a part of her wants to believe in him.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

He is Geralt. She is Renfri. Such human names for such unusual people.

He says her name with a certain kind of tenderness. She tries to do the same with his but it twists up into a question at the end.

It’s easy, once she knows his name, to offer her story in return. Words run from her lips, vulnerable and hurt, her arms hanging loosely at her sides—  _ I’m not a threat, see, I’m wide open for you to cut down _ . She talks of the attempts on her life, her voice running to the edge of her tongue as though thinking it can jump out from her mouth and be free. She doesn’t tell him everything— some pains are only hers— but she tells him enough. Enough to make him understand. Enough to describe Stregobor as a monster.

And witchers kill monsters.

But Geralt does not listen. He hums and says halfway meaningful things— he calls her  _ princess  _ and asks her questions— but he does nothing to show that he truly hears.

Renfri wonders if he’ll listen when she’s wrapped her body in the blazing streaks of bloodshot revenge. She wonders if he’ll listen to the monster everyone says she—

But Geralt doesn’t call her a monster. He warns against it in low tones, says murder is how she confirms their ideas. And it sounds so nice, so easy, to lay down the blade and move on from this pain. It sounds like a generous offer— perhaps more generous than she deserves.

And she finds she wants to believe him, if only for a few moments. She wants to pretend she can be more than a monster, more than a curse. She wants to play along because Geralt looks at her like she’s human— he says her name without drawing his sword, he turns his back without fear— and it’s been so long since she’s felt that sort of trust.

All other thoughts are absorbed into this one, and she finally says Geralt’s name as though she’s sure of it.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The dull tinges of the day belatedly fade, and Geralt takes her into his arms without fear. Walls in Renfri’s mind slowly break, letting him in— letting herself out.

She’s more than a monster when she’s with him, when he laughs and holds her like she’s something precious. Like, maybe, she’s still the princess she could have been— gods, she could have been so many things— or like, maybe, she’s just a normal girl born under a normal sun. He says her name in prayerful whispers, rolling her beneath him and over him, their skin touching in every place and in every way. A calloused hand through her hair, catching on tangles and they both laugh. She’s more than a monster when he kisses down her collarbone, when her fingers trail down his spine. She’s more than a curse, more than a monster—

But that doesn’t mean she isn’t angry or afraid. Because, eventually, the darkest point of the night advances— as dark as she imagines the black sun to be— and Geralt falls asleep beside her, and she is alone again.

She turns on her side, her fingers brushing gently through pale hair. He’s a flash of sunlight and she is just the moon preparing for an eclipse.

Geralt won’t kill her— he’s too noble for that, too good without recognizing his own goodness— but that doesn’t mean Stregobor will stop. There are always other witchers, other assassins, other sorcerers and mercenaries willing to dirty their hands with the blood of a girl they barely know. What does her story matter if the pay is high enough?

Hands across her body again, parting her thighs and holding her in place. Blood over her skin but it still doesn’t ease the trembling.

There will be others. There will always be others. 

Unless Stregobor is stopped.

Renfri stands, a kiss left on Geralt’s temple before she packs her things and leaves. 

She turns back only once, smiling at the color of Geralt resting in the dirt.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

_ Renfri wasn’t always alone in this blood-soaked world.  _

_ There was once a young woman of nobility. A green-eyed girl, eyes wide apart like almonds, tripping over her tongue and blushing each time she said a word wrong. _

_ She was lovely, Renfri thought. She was special. _

_ And Renfri was there when the sorcerers found her. She was there when it was revealed the girl was born under an eclipse. _

_ The same eclipse that began-- and ruined-- Renfri's life. _

_ She ran to Renfri but the sorcerers caught her _ _ with a jagged knife in her back. _

“She would have killed you _ ,” they told Renfri. They lied so easily.  _ “She was dangerous.”

_ And Renfri was useless— was helpless, was weak— as they dragged the corpse away, scientific words across their tongues, talk of dissection and autopsies and everything but the burial she deserved. _

_ Renfri had promised this would never happen again— not so long as she lived with the power to prevent it. _

_ <><><> <><><> <><><> _

Renfri counts the seconds like someone awaiting execution. It’s bitter cold and the roads back to Blaviken are filled with wild white daffodils.

The town rises before her like something dead emerging from a grave— all browns and greys, blacks and bruise-blues. 

Her daggers are friendly weights against her palms. The air clears her lungs. She tries to take strength from the flowers, from the steady budding of the trees. 

Eventually, as the people begin to wake, she enters the town square and looks for her men.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

There’s blood in the streets of Blaviken but she was not the one to spill it. 

“You chose,” Renfri says, choking on the words. Geralt stares across the town square at her, looking as though he had no other choice— looking as though he hadn’t just murdered the men Renfri once knew as family. 

Would he kill her next? Could he? 

Blood sticks to the witcher’s cheek and Renfri’s struck with a memory— one not kind enough to be far-off or distant— of rubbing her lips against that same face. He’d tasted of mud and sweat and she’d grinned. 

She thought his returning smile had been in companionship. Now, she only fears he’d been mocking her.

There are people huddling near marketplace stalls, clutching their chests even as their eyes burn with interest. All waiting for a show— the freaks crossing swords.

Geralt asks her to let Marilka go, Renfri’s knife close to splitting the vessel that would leave her as lifeless as Renfri feels. He raises his hand, twists it into one of those witchery spells.

Spells don’t work on her.

“Silver does, though.”

Geralt acts as though he doesn’t believe her— and it must be an act, it must be a lie, it must be every false pretense that someone could ever truly see  her  as  her  and not as—

A monster would kill Marilka. A monster would murder this child.

But Renfri’s seen too many girls die for a sorcerer’s war, and she’d promised to protect the rest.

So, that means she tosses Marilka aside. It means she aims her blades for Geralt instead. 

Flashes of silver. The embrace of her armor. The witcher’s blade swinging over her head with all the burden of the crown she might have worn. The air sharpens into the sour taste of decay. It’s in her hands when she switches blades behind her back, in her blood as she handles her sword like it’s a hammer meant to crush.

It’s in her chest when the witcher stalls, a look of mercy and pity in his eyes.

Then, there’s nothing left.

Nothing but her blade tearing through Geralt’s throat.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

At some point, it didn’t matter who she was fighting; they all met the same fate. Her sword through their ribs, their necks, their spines. For one particularly reckless guard, she aims a bit high and plants the end of her dagger through his jaw.

She calls Stregobor’s name as she cuts through his tower. His guards— brainwashed or bought— have fallen. There’s no one left to stop her as she drags him, trembling, out. His hands and fingertips flash with useless sparks.

Magic doesn’t work on her, and Stregobor’s hands fall from his wrists so nicely when she separates them with her sword. 

From there, the rest is meaningless. Why focus on how he begged with the same tongue that ordered her death? Why think of his pale hair staining red, his eyes widening to the point they might have burst? It’s only the taste of hatred in the back of her throat, strong as bile and sharp as steel. It’s her hair tangling as the wind picks up, her cheeks flushing as rage blinds her with nothing but a terrible red haze.

When it fades, it’s to the sight of Stregobor impaled upon one of his own guard’s spears. She only knows she put him there because his eyes are still open and staring at her.

The whispers start slow, a frightened wave pressing to the sand. The townsfolk, the audience, murmur to each other. Renfri vaguely remembers screaming, people begging her to stop. Don’t they know she did this for them? Stregobor was a bastard, a manipulator who’d sacrifice any of them before himself. A monster, a beast, a fucking  _ worm  _ bleeding out on the streets as he deserved, choking on his blood the way all those girls once choked on fear, the way  _ Renfri  _ cried herself to sleep each night the first year she was on the run, terrified he’d find her once her eyes were shut. Never again, he’d never hurt her again, never hurt anyone else, never—

“Butcherbird!” The villagers call, sounding as though they’d been shouting it for longer than just this one second Renfri’s heard. Something wells up, hot and thick in her throat. “Fucking butcherbird!”

She turns to face them, and it’s only then that she sees the stones in their hands. In the hands of the innkeeper who’d always kept a room open, just for her. In the hands of the boy who first taught her the shortcuts and alleyways of the town, in the hands of the girl who once sat and watched her sharpen her knives in the square. 

“You’re a beast,” they shout, the way they’ve always done. “Nothing but a feral bitch.”

Her stomach turns. She can barely move. 

_ No, _ she wants to say, but her own thoughts are interrupted as the first round of stones fly. They mostly miss, the people too afraid to step closer. But one hits her in the shoulder. One hits her in the knee.

“She’s a curse, a bad sign!” 

“Get out of here and don’t come back!”

“Fucking die, Butcherbird.”

She’d made a choice. She wouldn’t take it back, but—

“Die, bitch! You murderer!”

The jeers become one as she forces her way through the crowd, biting her tongue at how they draw away. 

Still, they yell. Still, they toss stones and call her names. Freak, bitch, monster, beast, curse, murderer—

_ Butcherbird _

The forest opens before her but she still feels their stones, their words. The trees welcome her but her body still aches with the fact that, once again, she’s alone.

A voice like music and wind fills her head, clawing its way up to shrieks and screams as she runs. Further and further into the woods, into the darkness, into the world.

Into a life stained by the blood now stuck to her hands; into a life weighed down by the medallion she’d taken, a snarling wolf hanging from her neck.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

_ The woman with the knife in her back had clung to Renfri as she’d died. At the moment before the sorcerers were upon them, she spoke words Renfri had never understood. _

_ “The girl in the woods will be with you always,” she’d gasped. “She is your destiny.” _

_ The words sailed like silver into Renfri’s mind, circling and stuck.  _

_ The girl in the woods. Always. _

_ Destiny.  _

_ A promise of something more than this solitude that chokes her awake with each rising of the sun. _

But Renfri— the princess born under a prophecy, cursed and mutated and fated to kill— has never put much faith in destiny anyway.

So, she runs-- and she runs alone.  
  
  



	2. "You butchered bodies in the streets of Blaviken..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruises fade. Time passes. The stories of the girl who murdered a witcher drift into obscurity.
> 
> But not all the rumors die so easily, least of all from Renfri’s memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's checked out this fic so far! I'm really excited for how the rest of this story is going to go so I hope you stick around <3

**Outside Blaviken**

**1231**

Renfri gasps as she runs, her breaths shrilly shrieking through her throat with each step. Her vision hazes into a dim fog on the edges, turning the forest into a gaping chasm opening and closing around her with each step. She offers herself to the void, wondering if she can disappear inside it.

But she cannot lose herself even as she blindly runs. All too soon, her legs tire and her lungs ache. Her hands tremble and she’s faced with a horse turning its head as she approaches its camp. 

“Roach,” she recalls the witcher saying, eyes darting over this place she once knew— a place she was welcomed, a place she was cared for— wanted, desired,  _ loved— _

There’s blood caked under her nails. Best to only focus on that.

Renfri falls to her knees by the small thread of water streaming through the mud and dirt, picking at her skin. The gore’s shoved deep beneath her fingernails, so deep she can barely see it.

“Come on,” she mutters to herself— scrubbing, scraping, swearing and biting her lip until it, too, is stained with red. “Fucker, get out.”

Water turns vaguely pink— only for a moment. The blood’s still there but she doesn’t know if it’s Geralt’s or hers.

_ Fuck _ . Geralt.

She pools the water into her palms, bringing them to her arms and neck, cooling the bruises forming on her skin. The shape of stones is imprinted on her body in pale blue shades. She feels it on her back and legs, her shoulders and ribs. 

She’s made of broken vessels and hollow bones. If the wind blows too hard, she’ll shatter.

Is this how satisfaction feels? Is this the result of years of hunting— the climax of her story? The princess took her revenge, she stained her teeth with the blood of her enemies— but now she sits in the dirt, searching for anything to feel and coming up with nothing.

This isn’t what she’d expected. Relief, perhaps, that Stregobor’s gone. Or, maybe, grief for the innocents she’d killed. Instead, her breaths tremble though her, and her hands close around nothing.

She’s done what she came for. She killed Stregobor. Now— Now, what? What’s left if not vengeance and anger and hate? What can she have when she just slaughtered everything she—

Something warm nudges her shoulder. Renfri jumps, turning— her dagger’s already poised in her hand.

“Who— Oh.” Just a horse, just an animal. Just Roach, without her owner.

Roach nudges her again, huffing a bit as she does. Renfri takes a step back, frowning.

“What do you—” 

Roach’s head bends towards Renfri’s wrist, huffing again. 

Renfri follows her gaze but she already knows what she’ll see.

The witcher’s medallion— blooded and stolen and useless. Renfri chokes on her next breath, the chain wrapped around her wrist— forgotten so easily. She pulls it closer to her, cradling the wolf’s head in her hand. There’d been a brief thought towards Geralt when she’d taken it, bending over his body and slipping it from his neck. The chain had caught on the slash over his throat, and the stained metal shines with his blood. Or maybe it’s hers, caught as the thing had swung from her wrist when guards had tried to take her down.

Or maybe it’s a dozen other people she’d cut down on her way to Stregobor. She can’t remember their faces but she’ll always know the smell of their blood.

“I’d thought to take it home to… to someone who knew him,” she explains, twisting the medallion. She tries and fails to find her reflection in it. “I suppose that would be someone like you, wouldn’t it?”

Wind through the trees, through her hair. The taste of a witcher’s blood on her lips.

The medallion warms in her hands.

“He was a good man,” she whispers. “But he didn’t understand what he was defending. I had no choice— or, well, I didn’t like the other options I had. Still, I didn’t  _ want  _ to harm him in the process. All things considered, I don’t know how comforting that is.”

Roach sniffs, a harsh sound that has Renfri looking back up. Big brown eyes stare back at her and, inexplicably, Renfri laughs.

“Fuck,” she breathes. “He talked to his horse, too, didn’t he? It’s as I told him— we’re not so different.”

Roach’s head is warm against Renfri’s hands when she pets down her nose. When Roach leans into the touch, something breaks and builds within Renfri’s chest. Cracking and forming and collapsing and creating— she sobs without tears, trembles without reason.

Geralt’s things lie around her, armor and weapons left behind. Renfri steps back and stares down at the solitary sword at her feet— as silver as the medallion, as sharp as the steel he brought to the fight.

Steel for humans, witchers say. Silver for monsters.

The world opens beneath her again, her stomach swooping at the sight of the unbloodied and untouched silver blade.

Geralt only brought his steel weapon for her; why on earth would he do something stupid like that? Anyone else would have seen her for the monster she is— everyone else already has. The guards had called her a bitch, a beast, a murderer. Her own stepmother ordered her death.

But, Geralt… Geralt had…

She twists the medallion around the hilt of her dagger, tightening the chain until it can’t be loosened. Someone out there saw her as human— it’s selfish, perhaps, but she wants the reminder of that for as long as she can have it.

Not that it seems that it will be very long if she stays in one place. The people were happy to let her run but she knows how things like this work. She can hide only until they find their weapons again; she can run so long as she can outrun their hatred and fear.

She turns and her eyes meet Roach’s. 

They only share a moment— the briefest of seconds— but it’s enough for Renfri to nod, to feel the tremors in her hands still. 

“Alright, then, girl,” she says. “If it’s okay with you…”

The silver sword is heavier than expected, the armor thicker than it looks. She packs quickly, gathering Geralt’s things and finding a place for them on his horse. Any other day, she might have felt guilty for stealing a dead man’s things; today, though, his horse keeps still for her. Today, her fingers linger on the edge of a blade he didn’t choose— a blade for a monster, something he didn’t see in her.

When she mounts Roach, a silver blade on her back and a steel dagger at her hip, it’s with a brush of wind that feels more like a sigh. She shuts her eyes against it for a second, breathing it in. 

The world expands around her once more.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Bruises fade. Time passes. The stories of the girl who murdered a witcher drift into obscurity.

But not all the rumors die so easily, least of all from Renfri’s memory. With each glance at her dagger, she remembers the way the witcher fell. With each brush of her fingers over the scar on her neck— the point of a knife aimed for her throat, dodging before it can pierce her fully— she recalls the moment the wticher’s fight went wrong.

Monster. Murderer. Mutant.

She recalls all of this but she lets her guard down when it seems no one else does.

It’s not her fault, wandering into a rickety old inn with bags aching beneath her eyes. She’d forced Roach through the night, underestimating the distance between this town and the last. It’s late and she’s sore, rubbing at her face and hiding a yawn as she approaches the innkeeper.

“How much for a night?” She asks, but she receives no response.

Frightened eyes at the knife at her hip, at the brooch pinned to her shirt. The innkeeper’s lips part soundlessly, gasping in a breath as his eyes fall upon that horrid scar tracing Renfri’s throat. This is all it takes for the man’s eyes to darken. It’s hatred and fear, terror and disgust— things Renfri could pretend didn’t exist, things she’d forgotten could be so hurtful, things she hasn’t seen since—

“Butcherbird of Blaviken,” the man spits and it’s as sharp as a strike across Renfri’s face— as harsh as stones against her skin, as terrible as blood beneath her nails once more.

Her voice catches in her throat, thick and sickly sweet— honey filling her mouth until she can barely breathe past the feeling of the truth she knows these people won’t believe.

“How do you know about that?” She asks, cursing herself when she realizes it sounds like a confession. 

“Everyone knows of Blaviken,” the innkeeper says, baring his teeth even as he steps away from her. “Of how you slaughtered a town of people, how you murdered even a respected sorcerer in your rage.”

That’s not what happened, she wants to say. That’s not who she is.

“I just want a room,” she says instead, slow and soft. She raises her hands gently, fingers spread to show she has no weapon. “I have no want for harm or trouble.”

“And I have no want for a murderer like you in my establishment,” the innkeeper shouts. 

That’s when other people look up.

Travelers waiting to speak to the innkeeper or simply spending time in the room. They turn to her and their eyes fill with the same recognition that floods the innkeeper’s eyes.

“It’s her,” they whisper. “The Butcherbird. The murderer.”

“Get her out!”

All it takes is one frightened woman’s shout and the people fall upon her. With mugs and other objects, smoking pipes and melted candles. Anything they can get their hands on, they throw.

It’s the stoning all over again.

“Wait, no,” Renfri says but they’re screaming too loud to hear her protests. “Stop, it’s not true.”

But isn’t it? Isn’t there a witcher’s medallion around her dagger? Isn’t there the proof of his attempt to stop her in the ache of her scars?

She lifts her dagger— she only means to toss it down, to show she won’t harm them— but the people draw back as one.

Afraid. Always so fucking afraid and, somehow, it’s worse than the hate.

What would they have done, she wonders, if the witcher was the one who lived? Applaud him for ridding the world of another monster? Tell tales of his heroics, of his bravery? The savior of Blaviken, cutting through the song in the butcherbird’s throat.

They wouldn’t hate him like they hate her, and, for the first time, she wonders if destiny was only playing games when it declared her the victor in Blaviken’s streets. In Blaviken, she had delighted in these looks, seeing them as dark and exciting things. People could see her as powerful— no one would dare look down upon her again.

But that was Blaviken and she was fighting a witcher. Now, she’s alone. Now, she runs.

Her own body thrills with the tremors of terror as she turns and shoves her way out the door. Past the others in the streets, past the animals playing in the dirt. She runs to Roach, unaware of her blurring vision until she’s pressed her face into Roach’s neck.

It feels so foolish, but—

“I didn’t know,” she whispers, her words cutting across her jagged breaths. “I didn’t know they’d hate me.”

Roach does nothing, simply following as Renfri wipes at her face and leads them back into the trees. 

It’s not her first night camping— far from the first, in fact— but she’s ill-prepared. She has few supplies and poor clothing, shivering against the wind as her fire tries its best not to die. She stares into the flames, as close to the meager warmth as she can get, and wraps her arms around her body. 

If she looks only at the flames, she can pretend it’s her time with Geralt all over again. Sitting by a fire with tangles in her hair, dirt smudging her cheeks even as she grins and jokes. Unarmed and unafraid, sharing more than just an evening. Two monsters looking back at each other, seeing nothing but a companion.

Roach shuffles as she rests, tied to a nearby tree. Renfri lies back against her thin bedroll, shutting her eyes. She wants to sink into the earth, smell of fir cones and dirt, her body expanding until it’s big enough for all the terrible feelings inside her.

The call of  _ Butcherbird Butcherbird Butcherbird Butcher  _ echoes _ —  _ it follows her into her dreams. 

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Over time, Renfri’s cut out from the world. Whether by her own doing or anyone else’s, it doesn’t matter.

“Aren’t you the cursed princess? The Butcherbird of Blaviken?” 

The questions follow, impossible to outrun.

Years pass— nearly a decade of them— but time only allows the stories to fester. It seems that every town has their version of the tale, each one more monstrous than the last. She killed for fun, for pleasure, for a bloodlust called upon by her curse. She becomes a beast in their eyes, just as an old prophecy once swore she would.

Sometimes, she’s lucky enough for a room at an inn but she’s come to recognize the fear in the eyes of people who don’t think they can tell her  _ no _ . At first, she’d leave at the sight of this, sick at the thought of abusing their terror, but the years have only required her to accept whatever scraps of kindness she can find— flecks of gold in the mud and grime of her life.

Still, she’s more an outsider than she’s ever been.

With time, she forgets how to ask for permission to join in on games and jokes, how to sit at a full table and make others laugh. She turns her back to taverns and busy streets, head down so she doesn’t have to watch the way people recoil at the sight of her. The air grows thick with distrust when she enters a room— it becomes difficult to tell who is afraid of who. Yes, the people believe she’s a murderer but that just means they have the right to cast her out— they have the justification to steal and scream and fight.

It’s easier, most nights, to make camp and spend the evening alone. Living in the wilderness quickly becomes one of her greatest skills— though that does little to make rocky grounds and rainy air any more comfortable. She’s not as in love with the wild as she once was, a runaway princess finding joy in the trees and roots that formed her safe haven. Now, she’s nothing more than a bedtime story to keep children in line—  _ be good or the Butcherbird of Blaviken will steal you away. _

Hunting her meals. Sleeping under the sky. Avoiding the growl of monsters in the dark and the cruelty of people in the day. This is her life.

And, one morning, her life leads her to a shitty tavern in Posada.

Her body’s sore as she stops in front of it, face streaked with sweat and dirt after a hard ride away from the last town. The people there had all but chased her out, pitchforks and everything, and she’s lucky that Roach was as fast as she was in getting them out of there. 

For a moment, Renfri just stares at the tavern, her tongue dry and heavy in her mouth. It’d probably be best to ride on, to find a merchant and spend her coin on supplies that will last, but the thought of a drink calls to her. Something cool— not cold, not in a place as worn down as this— and strong. Familiar, maybe. Something to make her feel human for just one damned second.

Roach secure outside the tavern, Renfri wraps a dark cloak over her shoulders, a bit of it slipping from her arms to show the dash of red cloth beneath— the same torn and dirty shade she always seems to purchase. Once, to better hide blood; now, only for the sense of security that comes with an old and favored blanket.

She walks into the tavern, head down to avoid the stares she knows she’ll receive. She asks for a drink in a low voice. She finds a dark corner, tucks herself within it.

And, in the front of the room, some bright-eyed bard smiles and begins to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now it's time for a certain bard to enter the story! Again, I'm really excited for the future of this, so thanks for checking this out! 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed this. I would appreciate it greatly :)


	3. Death and Destiny, Heroics and Heartbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier says it so plainly, though he does drop his voice as if there’s anyone to hear about the surviving elves kept in the wilderness. “But you— You have potential, Renfri. You can be something more. More than what they say, that is. More than—”
> 
> Renfri snaps her head up, prepared to hear that term again, to hear the call of Butcherbird Butcherbird Butcher—
> 
> But Jaskier’s eyes have filled with wonder; his hands weave the beginnings of a bedtime story through the air.
> 
> “You could be the Red Shrike,” he says, winking towards her shirt. “The Red Shrike, Savior of Bards.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters should start getting quite a bit longer from here on out now that we're actually meeting the other characters and delving into some plot. This one was rewritten quite a few times since the initial outline followed a bit too closely to the actual episode. I really hope that you enjoy the Jaskier and Renfri friendship we're getting into here! The thought of these two as friends is a huge part of what initially inspired this fic. 
> 
> I hope you like this!

**Posada**

**1240**

“Love how you just sit in the corner and brood.”

She doesn’t realize he’s talking to her, at first. People like him— colorful bards, smiling fools— don’t talk to people like her. They keep their distance and whisper to one another with hardly hidden stares, eyes flooding with a thing she’s come to know as a specific fear of  _ her.  _ She bites her tongue, waiting for him to move on.

But no one responds to the bard, and Renfri looks up. Something settles in her stomach-- dread or realization-- and she forces herself to ignore it.

The bard looks right back at her.

“You know, no one else hesitated to comment about the quality of my performance— except for you,” he says, sliding into the seat before her. Renfri recoils, a sharp action that nearly spills her drink— the bard doesn’t seem to care. “Come on, you don’t want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting. You must have some review for me. Three words or less.”

_ Fuck off, bard _ — that’s three words.  _ I’m not interested—  _ also works.

His eyes pin to Renfri’s, though, and he wets his bottom lip in an eager action. He’s as good as a puppy awaiting a treat, down to the wiggle that implies a wagging tail somewhere in his soul. Even his breathing sounds like excited panting.

So, Renfri pauses. She takes a long drink to buy herself time. What had he been singing, anyway? Something about monsters and bedtime stories, the warnings they tell each other around campfires. Nothing anyone here cared to listen to, if the bread in his pants is any indication. 

Renfri sighs, shaking her head. She’s putting too much thought into this. He just wants an answer, then he’ll leave. So, an answer she’ll give.

“They don’t matter,” she says, her voice low. It’s a habit, she supposes, the hesitant release of her words. Can’t speak too loudly lest people notice she’s here. Can’t speak too harshly or they’ll cast her out.

The bard, though, doesn’t miss a beat; he’s loud enough for the both of them.

“What?” He asks, brows furrowing together. “What don’t matter?”

Renfri looks down at her hands, her nails. She thinks of bedtime stories and make-believe tales.

“The things you sing about,” she says. “They’re just… pretend.”

“Oh.” The bard pauses for only a moment, his brow creasing further. “Okay, then. Then, what would you have me sing about?”

And isn’t that a strange question to ask her? Renfri’s never taken time to consider music or songs, rhyme or ballads or anything else. Maybe, in another life, she’d have memory of banquets and balls— dances and songs written in her honor. She could talk about the instruments she likes, the lyrics she knows best. She’d be elegant, refined, respected.

Instead, a sweaty bard sits across from her, tapping his fingers on the table, and takes her silence as invitation to continue.

“Oh, okay, fun.” He leans closer— and Renfri leans away from his blinding smile. “Pretty brooch. Big ol’ loner. One very, very scary looking dagger—”

“Two legs. Two arms. A tangled knot of hair at the back of my head,” Renfri says even as her heart sinks. “Any other details you care to mention?”

“Only that I know who you are.” And the bard points, the bard leans closer still, the bard looks at her with a glimmer in his eye and Renfri can’t sit here any longer. 

“I need to go,” she says, standing quick enough for the bench to scrape across the floor. Her hands become fists at her sides, and jagged nails press into her palms. 

Her breaths are sharp, painful things. Her chest’s a mountain caving in.

The bard stands. She can feel him as he follows, hear him as he yells—

“You’re the princess! Renfri of Creyden!”

People turn at the call of her name. They whisper; they draw away. 

Renfri looks down, jaw tight as her chest heaves for breath. “I’m no one.”

She keeps walking, avoiding the bard’s insistent gaze as she leaves. Always moving away from those who know her name; always turning her back on others before they can turn their backs on her.

But the bard—

He  _ follows _ .

<><><> <><><> <><><>

_ Jaskier—  _ he introduces himself as Jaskier, like that’s any sort of real name any real person would have. It's almost fitting in its dramatics, since the bard chases after her with all the force of an act of nature. He trails after her long after they’ve left the more populated area of Posada, skipping and smiling and trying to get her to talk. She ignores him as best she can though that only seems to encourage his rambling.

They make their way through some fields, the grain brushing against Renfri’s arms with a soft caress. She doesn’t know where it will take her but she’s long past truly caring about the names of the places she ends up in. All she knows is that it’ll be less crowded away from the established roads, and that it’ll be easier to make a camp in an open space then alongside a trail.

Jaskier trips after her, stumbling across an uneven mound of dirt. For a moment, Jaskier’s noise vanishes as he picks himself off the ground. 

Renfri walks quicker, tugging Roach alongside her. 

“You must need some form of companionship on your travels. We’d make such a good pair,” Jaskier says, jogging a bit until he’s nearly at Renfri’s side. 

Renfri presses her lips together and tries, uselessly, to tug Roach into a faster pace. Roach, the traitorous girl, shakes her head and keeps at the steady pace she’d been going. Her scowl only deepens when she sees Jaskier grin at Roach, as though thanking her for betraying Renfri. 

“There are countless others who would appreciate that offer,” Renfri lies— there’s no way anyone could possibly put up with Jaskier’s ranting. “Besides, you seem the type to prefer the finer things in life— fine food, fine clothing, fine company. You’re not likely to get much of that from me.”

“Yes, but, consider,” Jaskier says, the quick agreement causing Renfri to frown over at him more directly, “no one else in that tavern took a moment to really speak with me about my music. Regardless of the dirty clothing— and the rather overpowering stench of a rotten salad— you’re better company than the rest of them combined.”

“I gave you three words and poor advice,” Renfri says, rolling her eyes. 

“On the contrary!” Jaskier says and, fuck, his face lights with delight as Renfri realizes she’s engaged in a conversation with him without meaning to. “You said my songs don’t matter because they’re just made-up stories. Well, what better replacement for my imagination than your very real adventures?"

He speaks quickly, as though afraid of an interruption before he can get his words out. Renfri’s head spins with it so she pauses and turns, looking him in the eyes.

“You said I smell of rotten salad,” she says, raising an eyebrow. 

“Yes, well.” And Jaskier waves his hands through the air, brushing aside her concerns or, perhaps, trying to distract her from what he’s saying. “I also know of a wonderful perfumer back in Oxenfurt. I see this as an absolute win for you. How could you possibly say no to that?”

“I don’t go into cities,” Renfri says. 

Jaskier only smiles. “And I don’t go off the well-traveled path without reason. Seems like we all need to be able to make a little sacrifice here and there, though. One time, I borrowed—”

Renfri folds her arms across her chest and listens with all the enthusiasm of a student during a particularly tedious lecture. Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice.

Beneath the initial irritation, though, there’s something more. Something reminiscent of nights around a campfire, dwarves and bandits swapping tales and spirits, talking about anything and everything if only to hear each other’s voice.

It keeps Renfri in place, listening.

“ — the kids appreciated it, at least, and their mother informed me, in fact, that they still sing the little tune I wrote for them,” Jaskier says, finishing a new story Renfri hadn’t heard him start. “But that should reassure you that my word is good! I can be your barker! Spreading the tales of Renfri— the Butcherbird of Blaviken!”

Three words. Three words to shatter any budding warmth, to break through any companionship she might have imagined. Three words, one name, nothing but

_ Butcherbird Butcherbird Butcherbird Butcher— _

There’s blood still under her nails, still dripping from her hands— there must be; she can still feel it as plainly as she still feels the stones across her back. 

Three words to prove she's less than the friend Jaskier seems to want.

Renfri turns, nearly colliding with Roach in her haste to escape bright blue eyes and charming smiles. She listens only to her breath, only to the call of  _ Butcherbird Butcherbird Butcherbird  _ in her mind.

It’s interrupted by a small inquisitive voice. “Renfri?”

“Stop it.” And she turns against, the fine fabric of a dark blue doublet’s collar held tightly in her fist. She’s not taller than Jaskier but she is angrier— she is stronger. “This isn’t some game and you shouldn’t be entertained by any of it. I’m the  _ Butcherbird _ . You should be—”

“What? Scared?” He’s still smiling— cockily, calmly. “Yeah, don’t really go in for that.”

Jaskier with his smile and his teasing words— a bard with curiosity in his eyes, a color coated with the offer of kindness. Renfri doesn’t want to see him scared but—

The last person who looked at her like she was human ended up with her knife in his throat.

So, no. She doesn’t want to see Jaskier scared. But she also doesn’t want to see him hurt. Not like her friends, her men and fellow thieves. Not like innocent townsfolk and horrible sorcerers. 

Not like a witcher who only ever wanted her to be the lesser evil.

“Leave me alone.” She releases Jaskier, shoving him from her with enough force to send him sprawling to the dirt with a wounded sound. He stares up, mouth agape but eyes still so horrifically unafraid. 

She doesn’t want to know what it would take to place fear where it belongs. The thought alone makes her sick. Sick enough to stagger away from Jaskier; sick enough to climb onto Roach and ride from him, ignoring the desperate calls for her name.

“Renfri, wait!” He calls, and she can hear the drumming of his feet as he chases after her. “Renfri, don’t leave me!”

But she does, pushing Roach farther and faster. Away from the memories of what she thought she could be before she was Butcherbird; away from the false hope that anyone could look at her and see anything other than a curse.

The grass and wheat rises up around her, welcoming her into the fields. She only dismounts when she finds she can’t breathe, when her panic becomes a rope around her neck— tugging her nearly to her knees as she doubles over and heaves. Nothing comes up— nothing but a ragged breath— but she shuts her eyes against useless tears all the same.

One weak breath in. One trembling breath out.

It’s only when she’s found her heartbeat again that she realizes she’s surrounded with nothing but silence. The world stills around her and her eyes widen as she turns.

The bard’s gone quiet, and she’s known him long enough to know it’s far from a good sign.

“Jaskier?” She calls out, hesitant and foolish. It trips through her mouth, stumbling through the time it’s been since she’s said anyone’s name so familiarly. Has she ever known a name so simply? Has she ever called so easily? “Jaskier?”

She receives no response. With each call, she traces her steps back to where she’d left him, Roach’s prints still fresh in the mud. She carries a sense of fearful caution with her, wrapped tight in the cloak of something close to guilt.

At first, when she returns to where they were, she sees nothing. Maybe he returned to the town, cursing the princess who left him behind. Maybe he wandered away, searching for a better adventure than this.

Both possibilities— at least, if not for the steel ball stained with blood left alone in the dirt. 

“What the hell?” She mutters, leaning to lift it from the ground. Dust sticks to the still wet blood, smearing against her thumb when she turns it in her hand. 

Without permission, her heart lifts into her throat with a stuttered gasp. Fuck, but it’s been so long since she’s worried for anyone but herself. 

A rustling in the grass. Hurried steps in the distance. 

Whoever took the bard is still close. 

Renfri presses the ball into her pocket, turning quickly to see if she can track Jaskier down. She doesn’t care about him— it’s not that she likes him or needs him— but she knows he wouldn’t have been out here if hadn’t followed her.

If he dies at the hands of some robber or thief, it’ll still be her fault. It will always be her fault.

The thoughts spin in her head but she refuses to spiral, crouching by the dirt until she spies faint tracks and drag marks pulling from where she’d found the projectile. She brushes her hands over the area, disturbing the dirt. 

“Something large,” she says to herself. “Perhaps the size of a man but no heavier than one. Strong enough to take Jaskier, though.”

The tracks lead towards a stretch of rocks and hills farther in the distance, stone mountains pulling from the ground like gates between her and the edge of the world. 

Between her and the stupid bard who followed her here.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

“— entirely unfair and just downright rude, honestly, to attack and kidnap someone without warning! It’s completely uncalled for and makes for a horrible first impression and— hey, hey, no, please, not the lute!”

The bard, at least, isn’t dead.

She follows the trail— and the sound of indignant shouting— to a series of caves hidden amongst the rocky hills. A breath of relief leaves her chest, betraying the full extent of the fear that had wound tight across her muscles.

She waits at the mouth of the passage Jaskier’s voice echoes from, her dagger in her hand. She’d left Roach with the supplies farther down the trail, worried about losing the horse to some wild beast or monster. Now, she hopes the small knife will be enough to get her out of this mess. It’s not a huge concern; this dagger, after all, has gotten her through worse.

Eventually, Jaskier goes quiet— or, as quiet as he can be. He huffs and mutters to himself, shuffling sounds punctuating each curse. Renfri hesitates, listening for a guard or return of whoever had been tormenting him. Satisfied they’re alone, she takes a step forward.

“Jask—”

An elf silently emerges from down the passage behind her, an ugly snarl distorting the elf’s face. Renfri ducks her first blow, swearing at herself for letting her guard down, and misses the second kick from the elf. Renfri’s legs collapse from under her as the elf strikes against her knees. She falls into the room they’re keeping Jaskier in, her breath leaving her in a whoosh as she falls onto her back.

It’s instinct that brings Renfri’s hands up in time to catch the elf as she tries to descend upon her, the dagger falling from Renfri’s grip as she grabs hold of the elf’s forearms. She tugs, gritting her teeth, and twisting with her feet planted against the ground. A quick turn and a sudden shove has the elf on her back. Renfri twists with her, using both their weights as the force that brings her on top, a leg swung over the elf’s waist and another pressed against her chest. 

Across from her, Jaskier laughs.

“Oh, so this is the part with the daring rescue!” He says. There’s a bright bruise blossoming across his left cheekbone, and a mess of dried blood near his hairline. Renfri scowls at the minor injuries, careful not to let up any weight from the elf beneath her.

“This is the part where you shut up,” she snaps at Jaskier, muscles tense as the elf below her begins to buck and writhe. Renfri looks down, prepared to snap at her for refusing to give up, but pauses when she sees blood dripping out from between her lips. “I— I didn’t—”

“What’s wrong with her?” Jaskier asks. Renfri pulls back, eyes stuck on the crimson staining the elf’s chin.

“I don’t—”

“She’s sick.” Another elf, taller and with a shock of golden hair hanging limply from his head. A devil-like creature follows beside him, something caught between a goat and man. They go to the elf-girl first, muttering names to each other— things like Filavandrel and Toruviel and Torque— and Renfri steps back until she’s standing at Jaskier’s side. She breathes heavily, suddenly feeling like the intruder she is. 

At last, the male elf— a man they called Filavandrel, an elf they called king— stands and faces them. His eyes carry a caution that makes Renfri sick, that presses into her bones like scuttling bugs and leads her to feel at fault for a crime she’s sure she didn’t commit. 

“I was told there was one captive,” he says in a cool tone, speaking before Renfri finds her own words.

“Do I look captive to you?” Renfri asks with a surety she doesn't feel.

“No,” he says, considering. His head tips to the side, watching her— reading her. “You look like the humans that put me and my people in a place like this.”

It’s as good as a physical strike, Filavandrel’s tone wounded and wounding all at once. His eyes narrow at her as he holds an arm out, gesturing to the dilapidated caves he lives in, the ruins of a world once honored. A king without a kingdom.

“No one forced the elves from Dol Blathanna,” Jaskier says, though it’s with confusion rather than derision. The words land harshly all the same, flung carelessly into the empty spaces of his prison. “You chose—”

“Do you know anyone that would choose to leave their home?” Filavandrel’s eyes remain on Renfri, and his words sound as though they're for her. Can he see the past in her posture, the tension planted there when a stepmother hired a man to have her killed? Can he envision the horrors of her story, the way she ran and cried and screamed as her palace grew into nothing but a bitter memory in the back of her mind?

Renfri doesn’t move, barely breathes.

“I’m just here for the bard,” she says with more heat than she means, a desperate shard of sunlight caught in each of her words. “He’s here because he followed me. He shouldn’t die because of that.”

“But would you die in his place?” Filavandrel asks, and if Renfri is the sun then he is the moon. He stands before her with a certain kind of stillness, a silent sort of strength. Renfri burns from the inside out and he reflects every flaw back at her with nary a blink.

When Renfri fails to answer, Filavandrel takes a step towards her. She thinks, maybe, she should take a step back. But it’s reverence, not fear, that keeps her from moving away.

“Humans are all the same,” he says. There’s a lilt to his voice, a tenor made to be the subject of ballads and epics— not crumbling caves and sharp-edged rocks. “Happy to be heroes so long as they have nothing of any true weight to lose in the process. Easier to grant death to the enemy than to offer a little sacrifice in its place.”

_ A little sacrifice _ — words spoken as a jest, a minor detail in one of Jaskier’s longer quotes. The echo of it wrinkles down her skin like the breath of someone standing too close.

And, just like a sigh of her own, Renfri finds a response.

“I don’t speak for humanity, only for myself,” she says. “There’s enough blood on my hands without adding the rest of the world’s crimes to it.”

Filavandrel’s disinterested frown reshapes itself into something more thoughtful, his eyes considering Renfri for a long moment before he speaks.

“Do you consider yourself part of humanity?” He asks.

What a stupid question to ask someone like her.

“Does it matter what I consider myself,” she asks, “when the rest of the world has already decided my place for me? I can’t control how they view me.”

Filavandrel circles her with wide strides, watching her the way a hunter may watch a rabbit caught within a trap. Will she chew off her leg to escape? Will she give in, broken and wounded by the chase that led her here?

“If you don’t fight for humanity, would you fight against it?” Filavandrel asks, at last. His words linger in the space between them, hesitating— as though uncertain if Renfri is the target Filavandrel thinks she is. “Cursed princesses and hated elves, both struck down for nothing more than the way we’re born. Surely, you must think of revenge.”

Of gore on her hands and bodies at her feet? Of cut-off wails and a blade that will never clean?

She thinks of it nearly every damned day.

“I’ve been down that path,” she says. “You come out bloody and hating yourself.”

Filavandrel’s eyes narrow but not at Renfri; they turn towards Jaskier.

“Regardless of your morals or your role, this bard is nothing more than a human. If we let him leave, what’s to stop him from exposing our existence?” He asks. “What makes him different from the thousands who’ve killed and persecuted my people? What separates him from those who’d see you dead?”

Renfri follows Filavandrel’s gaze down towards where Jaskier’s lips are pressed tight together, no doubt keeping back the insults or questions that fill the rest of his face. The same lips that had shouted after her, recognized and named her. The mouth that knew to call her  _ butcherbird— _

The mouth that called her Renfri far more than it called her anything else.

“He’s unafraid.” Just a breath, a little whisper in the shape of words she hasn’t yet thought through. Renfri drags her eyes back to Filavandrel, lifting her chin as her voice gains strength. “You believe people fear and hate what they do not understand but this… this  _ bard _ followed me. He looks at me like I’m human and, even now, he only looks upon you as the ones who captured and harmed him, nothing more.”

“And what should that mean to me?” Filavandrel asks.

“It means that you’re allowed to hope.” Even though the word is dust on her tongue, as useless as every  _ hope  _ she’s had these past few years, she speaks it with an authority she didn’t know she had. She speaks of things she once knew to be lies, now only wondering if they can be true. “If there’s one good human amongst the hundreds of bad, can’t that be enough?”

“You have great trust in what you see,” Filavandrel says.

“No,” Renfri responds. “I only have nightmares of the things I’ve done. I can’t save you from what’s happened, but I can protect you from the horrors of such a guilt.”

She and Filavandrel stand breaths apart, staring into one another with eyes that burn of tragic pasts and wrongs never righted.

“Toruviel,” he says, at last, without looking away. “Free the bard.”

“Wait, really?” Jaskier asks, causing Renfri to kick back towards his shins. He mutters a soft  _ ow  _ but falls silent as the other elf moves towards him. Toruviel unties Jaskier with a dreary obedience, and Jaskier shakes his hands to bring blood back into his digits.

It’s when Renfri’s turned, watching as Jaskier bemoans his broken lute, that Filavandrel speaks again.

“I didn’t free him because of what you said,'' he tells her. Renfri looks back to him, her eyebrows drawn together. Her lips part but Filavandrel lifts a hand, stilling her voice. “I have no hope for him to be the one good human in this world.”

“Then, why—”

“Because I have hope,” Filavandrel says with a look that’s not a smile, not a frown, “that the hero we need can be you.”

Renfri doesn’t answer, standing still enough for Filavandrel to walk past her without another word— so calmly, she’s sure she imagined his confession entirely.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Even after they’ve escaped the elves, Jaskier still follows Renfri with a grin and a skip in his step.

When he speaks, it’s with a tone of good humor— as though he hadn’t just escaped from a near-death experience.

“Is now a good time to admit that I was absolutely terrified throughout that whole ordeal?” He drums his fingers across the body of his new lute, staring stupidly at Renfri as she leads Roach between them. “Because, truthfully, I didn’t think you’d pull off such a lovely rescue. Not that I ever doubted your heroics, I mean. Just that people rarely have both strength  _ and  _ wit. How lucky you are to have both.”

Renfri’s half tempted to take it as more of Jaskier’s flirting, but there’s an undercurrent of awe beneath the teasing. He speaks of her as though she’s a legend he’s been blessed to witness, a story come to life.  She's used to people talking about her as though she’s nothing more than a character. They’ve never sounded quite so kind about it before, though. This excitement is strange, new; she’s yet to decide if it’s good.

Jaskier’s safe, she focuses on. That’s all that matters.

“Alright,” she says as they approach the edges of the nearest town. Her feet slow as though by habit, the promise of strangers wrapping around her limbs to keep her still. “You should be good on your own from here.”

It’s the closest to a farewell that she’s willing to give, already turning to Roach and preparing to ride off.

Jaskier’s voice, though, turns her back towards him.

“Oh, come on,” he says, dragging the words out. “I don’t have much coin but there’s enough left for us to split a meal. Don’t tell me you plan on wandering off into the wilderness on an empty stomach.”

“I have my own supplies,” Renfri says, but she keeps her eyes away from Jaskier’s persistent gaze. “And it doesn’t include bread in my pants.”

Jaskier should laugh, should make a joke or some affronted noise. Instead, he’s silent as he takes a soft step forward— one step only, though he leans forward as though bracing himself for a greater journey.

“You know, I wasn’t lying about being your barker,” he says, plucking a random string on his lute. It’s a gift from Filavandrel, and even Renfri can hear the quality difference from the last one. Jaskier’s original lute had a tighter tone to the notes, a sharper edge to each chord. Filavandrel’s lute, though, lets its music linger in the air, deeper and fuller and resounding— far more fitting for someone like Jaskier. “One good song can change a hundred minds, and you' re as worthy a muse as any.”

Renfri scoffs, running a hand through her hair. Tangled and matted and caked with dirt— truly, a muse for the ages.

“It was the elves who let you go,” Renfri says. “I just said some pretty words that sped along the process.”

“I can’t write of the elves— people would come for them.” Jaskier says it so plainly, though he does drop his voice as if there’s anyone to hear about the surviving elves kept in the wilderness. “But you— You have potential, Renfri. You can be something more. More than what they say, that is. More than—”

Renfri snaps her head up, prepared to hear that term again, to hear the call of  _ Butcherbird Butcherbird Butcher— _

But Jaskier’s eyes have filled with wonder; his hands weave the beginnings of a bedtime story through the air.

“You could be the Red Shrike,” he says, winking towards her shirt. “The Red Shrike, Savior of Bards.”

And what can Renfri do other than laugh? 

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, but the laughter doesn’t ache through her lungs like it so often does. More than a scoff or bitter huff of breath, her mouth fills with the taste of mirth. Sweetened and sugary on her tongue, light enough she fears something’s gone wrong in her chest. It's nearly terrifying. “No one would listen to a song like that.”

She’s said her piece, she’s had her fun— now, it’s time to go. She means it, she swears, when she shakes her head and turns away. Jaskier will be a fond memory— best to leave it at that before she can taint it with regret.

She takes a few steps, her feet feeling heavier now that Jaskier’s not calling her back. 

Not that she should have expected him to stop her, right? He survived his first adventure; surely, there’s nothing more he can want from her. And there’s definitely nothing she should want from him.

But, for a moment, that second of laughter… That burst of a smile spreading over her cheeks before she knew what it was… the way he said her name… the way he looked at her like…

Two birds dive across her path, flying low to the ground as they hunt. The wind of their attack brushes over Renfri’s face, disturbing her hair, and she jumps back. 

In time with her gasp, there’s the strumming of a lute.

_ “When a humble bard graced a ride along with Renfri of Creyden, along came this song…”  _ Jaskier sings, slower than the songs at the tavern— a haunting melody, a more alluring tone. It's a twist of simple notes with the threat of something hanging just on the horizon of the song. Renfri stills, incapable of moving as Jaskier continues.  _ “For when the Red Shrike fought a silver-tongued devil—” _

She doesn’t breathe as his voice dances along the edges of the verse, her body suddenly held in place by the lyrics and music. Oh, she can listen to this make-believe tale of heroics, she can sigh at the dramatics and exaggerations.  _ Broke down my lute and kicked in my teeth _ — she almost smiles, she almost laughs, almost shakes her head and walks away but—

_ “Toss a coin to your princess—” _

And Renfri can only turn before the thin strand of sanity within her breaks, cut apart by the cruelty of false hope.

“That’s not how it happened,” she snaps, her knuckles white around Roach’s reins. “And I’m not a princess.”

Anyone else would hide from the growl in her voice or the fury in her words. She glares and she grits her teeth, muscles as tense as the moment before a fight. 

Jaskier, though, carries his smile like a lucky charm, a talisman in the shape of a lopsided smirk.  It’s a look belied by the sudden solemnity of his voice— a strike of dignity so nearly out of place that Renfri finds herself staring.

“There’s more to nobility than simply being born into it,” he says— and Renfri knows this, but it feels like a revelation all the same. “Besides, I’m a bard. You should know to leave the storytelling to me.”

Renfri waits, looking over Jaskier once more. There’s nothing new to him— nothing but a wound beneath his bangs and a stain of mud across his collar— but it feels like looking into the sun. As though, perhaps, by staring long enough, she’ll see the true shape beneath the layers of light— the façade of illumination covering something of real substance beneath. 

But then the shadows shift, and Jaskier is just a bard again, blue eyes gleaming with enough light to outshine the sun anyway.

“Come on, then,” Jaskier says, turning away. “I’m inspired but I can’t finish the song on an empty stomach. My offer of splitting a meal still stands.”

As Renfri considers his words in the silence between speech and song, Jaskier’s smile softens and he turns. Renfri shuts her eyes, leaving herself alone with Jaskier’s words.

_ You have potential, Renfri,  _ he’d said.  _ You could be something more. _

_ You could be the Red Shrike. _

_ “That’s my epic tale, our champion prevailed. Defeated the villain,”  _ Jaskier sings,  _ “so pour her some ale! Toss a coin to your princess…” _

A princess. A friend of humanity.

A hero.

Renfri opens her eyes, watching as Jaskier walks away. He sways in time with the music, often looking over his shoulder with a glimmer in his gaze.

The dagger at her hip, a wolf medallion wrapped tight around the hilt. That’s the stuff of stories, isn’t it? That’s the making of an epic, can’t it be?

Jaskier continues to sing, starting over with greater confidence than before. It’s a good song, a catchy tune. It’s hard to believe it’s about her.

But, maybe… One day…

She takes a step forward. Not quite hesitant, not quite sure. Somewhere in between.

Jaskier catches her eye as she catches up to him, Renfri following him this time around.

Maybe, one day, she can believe the things he sings. For now, though, it’s enough to watch their shadows merge, stretching into something with more than potential.

With Jaskier at her side, the shape of his song sounds like a promise. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Next chapter won't be based on an episode, so stick around for the fun of that one!

**Author's Note:**

> Don't let this chapter fool you. The rest are planned to be much longer. Please let me know if you enjoyed this, and I'll try my best to get the next part out soon! Thanks for reading!


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